hastily arranged through Paul with help from Mom. Mom couldn’t summon the dashing ghost herself, but she knew something of his habits. We’d agreed to meet at Mom’s house because much like Paul, who couldn’t leave my guesthouse property, Lawrence could travel only within the boundaries of Whispering Lakes, the active adult community where Mom lived. (Apparently he’d been a neighbor of hers on the other side of the complex when he was alive, but they’d never met.)
Maxie, who had gotten to come along in her usual way (by materializing in my car after I’d traveled too far to take her back) was with me, too, but Melissa had been convinced—after a good deal of protestation on her part and some old-fashioned threat-making on mine—that she still had to go to school today, though I’d conceded she would be allowed to aid in the investigation when it was possible. Of course, in my mind that still meant “never.”
“A conspiracy,” Lawrence repeated back, looking down his nose at me. “I am the victim of a vast network of vandals, thieves and”—he paused briefly here—“murderers.”
Maxie watched Lawrence openmouthed. It’s not easy to impress Maxie, but this guy was a first-class drama queen if ever I’d seen one.
Mom, who had out of polite habit put out a plate of cookies for her guests despite my being the only one who could eat, got Lawrence’s eye and spoke in what was for her a soothing tone (to me it sounded like the voice of a police hostage negotiator). “Now, Lawrence,” she said. “All Alison asked was about your business.”
It had been strangely gratifying to see how pleased Mom was when I’d agreed to investigate Lawrence’s “murder.” She had such trust in me, however ill-advised, that I’d felt like a heel for hesitating in the first place. So by the time I’d dropped Melissa off at school and seen to the needs of the Hendersons—which were minimal today—Paul had arranged this audience with the ghost.
Once I’d agreed to this meeting, I’d been slightly concerned that I might not be able to see Lawrence. I can’t see as many spirits as Mom and Melissa do; my ability is still in the development stage. Which normally I don’t find at all worrisome, unless I have to question a dead person. But luckily, I suppose, Lawrence was among the ghosts I could have spotted a football field away—his strength of personality was that strong. If you know what I mean.
Lawrence stopped and considered what my mother hadsaid. “Of course, Loretta, my apologies,” he said, lavishing on the charm. Really, the man should have been wearing a cape. “I am—was—an impresario.”
There was a silence. “A what?” Maxie asked.
The elder ghost turned his head slowly, milking the effect. “An impresario . I provided entertainment of the highest order to the residents of this”—and here he sniffed to give us a taste of how unappreciated he’d been in this den of heathens—“area.”
Mom clucked her tongue. “Lawrence,” she chided. “You worked in the ticket office at the Count Basie Theatre in Red Bank.”
Lawrence seemed to deflate in the face of Mom’s bluntness but then pumped himself up again. “It’s true,” he admitted. “But I had a ninety-eight percent accuracy score on my evaluations and no customer complaints in fifteen years.”
“Impressive,” I said. Then, since somebody had to bring this conversation back to the topic at hand, I continued, “So let’s talk about what happened to you.”
Lawrence regarded me. He didn’t look at me; he regarded me. And no doubt found me wanting. “I was murdered,” he said.
“Yes. That’s not a lot to go on. Can you give me a few details? You say you were electrocuted?”
“I was electrocuted, whether I say so or not,” he corrected me. “It is a fact.”
“The medical examiner’s report”—which I had not actually seen, but what the hell—“says you died of cardiac arrhythmia.”
He curled his upper
Maxie, who had gotten to come along in her usual way (by materializing in my car after I’d traveled too far to take her back) was with me, too, but Melissa had been convinced—after a good deal of protestation on her part and some old-fashioned threat-making on mine—that she still had to go to school today, though I’d conceded she would be allowed to aid in the investigation when it was possible. Of course, in my mind that still meant “never.”
“A conspiracy,” Lawrence repeated back, looking down his nose at me. “I am the victim of a vast network of vandals, thieves and”—he paused briefly here—“murderers.”
Maxie watched Lawrence openmouthed. It’s not easy to impress Maxie, but this guy was a first-class drama queen if ever I’d seen one.
Mom, who had out of polite habit put out a plate of cookies for her guests despite my being the only one who could eat, got Lawrence’s eye and spoke in what was for her a soothing tone (to me it sounded like the voice of a police hostage negotiator). “Now, Lawrence,” she said. “All Alison asked was about your business.”
It had been strangely gratifying to see how pleased Mom was when I’d agreed to investigate Lawrence’s “murder.” She had such trust in me, however ill-advised, that I’d felt like a heel for hesitating in the first place. So by the time I’d dropped Melissa off at school and seen to the needs of the Hendersons—which were minimal today—Paul had arranged this audience with the ghost.
Once I’d agreed to this meeting, I’d been slightly concerned that I might not be able to see Lawrence. I can’t see as many spirits as Mom and Melissa do; my ability is still in the development stage. Which normally I don’t find at all worrisome, unless I have to question a dead person. But luckily, I suppose, Lawrence was among the ghosts I could have spotted a football field away—his strength of personality was that strong. If you know what I mean.
Lawrence stopped and considered what my mother hadsaid. “Of course, Loretta, my apologies,” he said, lavishing on the charm. Really, the man should have been wearing a cape. “I am—was—an impresario.”
There was a silence. “A what?” Maxie asked.
The elder ghost turned his head slowly, milking the effect. “An impresario . I provided entertainment of the highest order to the residents of this”—and here he sniffed to give us a taste of how unappreciated he’d been in this den of heathens—“area.”
Mom clucked her tongue. “Lawrence,” she chided. “You worked in the ticket office at the Count Basie Theatre in Red Bank.”
Lawrence seemed to deflate in the face of Mom’s bluntness but then pumped himself up again. “It’s true,” he admitted. “But I had a ninety-eight percent accuracy score on my evaluations and no customer complaints in fifteen years.”
“Impressive,” I said. Then, since somebody had to bring this conversation back to the topic at hand, I continued, “So let’s talk about what happened to you.”
Lawrence regarded me. He didn’t look at me; he regarded me. And no doubt found me wanting. “I was murdered,” he said.
“Yes. That’s not a lot to go on. Can you give me a few details? You say you were electrocuted?”
“I was electrocuted, whether I say so or not,” he corrected me. “It is a fact.”
“The medical examiner’s report”—which I had not actually seen, but what the hell—“says you died of cardiac arrhythmia.”
He curled his upper
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